


the captain's boy

by noahlikeswaffles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caning, Child Abuse, Child Murder, Child Neglect, Dom John Watson, Extremely Underage, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Size Difference, Slave Sherlock Holmes, Slavery, selfharm tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahlikeswaffles/pseuds/noahlikeswaffles
Summary: 7 year old Sherlock is sold to a new Master. John isn't one for coddling the tiny little slave, but treats him fairly. Sherlock only ever wants to please.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 34
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock didn't cry. He didn't. He wasn't crying. Boys don't cry. The scrawny boy sniffled, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. His skin was filthy, mottled with dirt and dried blood, his hair oily and slick with dirt, sticking to his forehead in clumps. He sat in a small, far too small cage, his ankles and wrists in shakles. He flickered his watery eyes over the stacks of cages, so grateful to not be below anyone. His own floor was filthy with his own waste and pee. 

_Mycroft_ , he barely whispered to himself, _please find me._ He bit back a wrenched sob. What if...What if...he never saw Mycroft again? 

He cried out in anguish. 

"Quiet!" He gasped as one of the trainers hit the side of his kennel with a big stick. The metal bars rattled and Sherlock cowered, tucking himself down. "Stop crying, you little bitch, or I'll give you something to cry about,"

Sherlock kept his mouth shut, praying that the scary bald man would go away. 

"I want my mummy, please, please I want to go home!" Wailed his neighbor, her fingers grasping out of the bars of her kennel to the bald man. Sherlock didn't have the bravery to shush her, he kept his head down, eyes pressed shut. She was older than him, but she was so stupid. So stupid. What did she think, that they'd bring her to her Mummy, sorry about the mistake? He could picture bald man's face, lips curled back into a smile, crooked teeth glimmering. 

The next thing he heard was the cage being tipped over, the girl screaming as he yanked open the door, her hands and feet clawing to remain inside as he pulled her out by the hair. He tugged her into the air, ignoring her kicking at the empty air and screaming cries that echoed through the packed storeroom.

She fell to the floor, and he quickly pulled off the nightdress she'd been wearing, leaving her naked on the cold concrete floor, lying in a puddle of some dank liquid. She screeched, her inhuman wails squeezing through the hands Sherlock had over his ears. 

_Mycroft will find me. Mycroft will find me. Mycroft will find me._

He kicked her. Over and over. All over. Sherlock looked over his arm, eyes wide and fearful as each punishing boot hit her body. She never stopped screaming, never, her arms and legs flailing, even when one of them snapped with a loud _crack_ beneath his foot. 

Sherlock couldn't look away, even as her arm hung at such a funny angle, it looked like she had two elbows. He blinked, ears pressed tighter as the loudest scream he'd ever heard blasted through, her mouth open in feral terror as she writhed, staring at her arm. 

"Shit," The man said, growling and looking at it, "Look what you did you mangy little slut! Paul! Paul, what to do I do with it?"

"What's wrong now?" Came an annoyed voice from the corner and Sherlock peeked over to see an overweight man reading a filthy magazine, the kind Mycroft had under his bed. Except this one had girls on the cover. 

"It struggled and now it's got a broken arm," He shouted over the wailing of the girl who held the two pieces of her arm together, and Sherlock couldn't even blink, soaking it all up as he clenched himself tighter into a ball.

"Fuckin hell, boss'll be mad," Paul grumbled, dragging himself up from his folded chair and slapping his magazine down on it as he stood. 

"We can't sell it like this!" Bald man groaned, 

"We've got thirty of em, what's one missing?" Paul shrugged, pulling a black gun from his jacket pocket. Sherlock sucked in a breath as the gun was passed between them. Bald Man took it in his thick fingers and undid the safety, the girl so involved in her wailing she didn't even notice him pointing it at her head. 

The screaming ended very quickly.

 _She's dead_ , he thought absently, _oh_.

Sherlock's eyes were locked, his face solid and calm as she bled, her eyes open, the thick red liquid oozing into the puddle on the floor, clotting the clearish liquid. 

"What are you looking at, bitch?" The man snarled at Sherlock

Sherlock winced and kept his eyes on his feet, exploring the beginnings of his mind palace, just a grand hall that Mycroft had helped him to construct. He decided he needed a room to put the dead girl in. 

He might need lots and lots of rooms.


	2. Chapter 2

~~2 months later~~

John Watson didn't like the look of this place. Cheap hotel conference room with tacky wallpaper and a small stage with rows of folding chairs. The corner of his lip turned into a bit of a snarl, he checked his watch for the third time since arriving. Mike was over in the corner, chatting up the auctioneer, and John was impatient. Not that he had anything better to do. 

_Slaves are investments, John. Purchasing one will help you._ Ella's words mocked him in his head and he shifted in his seat, scrubbing his hands up and down his trouser legs. He wasn't an abolitionist. We are all born in our place, that's just the way life is. Maybe he went to a few human rights protests in University, but who didn't. And he was pretty sure he only went because the girl he fancied did. He couldn't remember now if they'd shagged. It wasn't really important but oh god was this thing going to start so it could be over so he could go home? His old friend Mike was _babysitting_ him and it was puerile. 

"Having fun yet?" Mike smiled as he shuffled through the seats to join John, handing him a pamphlet.

John hmmed and took the folded programe. Inside were descriptions of each item. Physical traits, age, personality, training, if any. This was a kit auction, so they were at most 15. But Ella insisted. _Training slaves is hard work John, and having something to do, something to write in your blog would be just what you need._

"Auctions always make me nervous," Mike chuckled wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Anticipation, bidding, the strategy,"

"Whatever floats your..boat," John smiled politely, but his brows were furrowed and his lips tight. He didn't think this was the right thing for him. His family had owned two slaves growing up. One for his mother and one for his father. He didn't pay them much attention. Except for his sixteenth birthday, when his dad had let him have a go at Lucy. Mum did not approve and had scolded both of them before giving Lucy the caning of a lifetime. 

He had enjoyed it then. He didn't enjoy it now. 

He was a handsome, intelligent, attractive man. He didn't need to force someone to suck his cock or do his dishes. But nowadays...with his shoulder..and his limp...

Maybe Ella had been trying to be kind about it. 

"Looks like they've only got a few boys, John," Mike said, almost disappointed, and John turned anxiously, gripping his cane handle.

"right," He nodded, and with a flick the lights of the conference center turned off and on. The mingling couples and bidders all filed to their seats, and John crossed his arms across his chest. There was a whimper, and the audience seemed to ignite, beginning to chat as the first piece of merchandise was brought on stage. She couldn't be older than twelve, with black hair cut short around her chin and dark eyes that weeped with tears as she was pulled along by a collar and leash. She had budding breasts that bounced with each tug. Her thin fingers were clutching at the dark leather, and the man dressed in all black scolded her, threatening to slap her. She let go immediately. The audience all nodded amongst themselves. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, our first offering tonight is this 40 kilogram female, a real charmer. She's gentle, sweet and very low maintenance. Very obedient, and has been thoroughly trained" John couldn't control the way his shoulders slumped, a bit disappointed, his nerves tightening as he watched the exits. Bad habit when he was bored. Mike seemed entertained though, John noticed from the corner of his eye. "We'll start the bidding at nine hundred pounds."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"And now, I am very delighted to show you a very special kit, and while he's a bit..." John scrunched his eyebrows, looking up in interest at the auctioneers tone of voice, "-fiery, I can assure you, he'll meet all your needs and is just the perfect age to begin training. Recommended for experienced slave owners," John looked to see the slave, only to see the stage empty. There was a buzzed silence, before a handler roughly pulled on a leash, the aforementioned merchandise falling to the floor with a thump. John sucked in his breath, lips parted. 

The filthy child was still so, beautiful, he realized. A little clumsy, and definitely spirited, but _Christ_ , look at that little arse, so plump and beautiful, with three stripes across his bum from a caning. John couldn't help but chuckle as the gangly boy wobbled upwards, trying to balance as he stood at the end of his lead, covering his tiny little penis with his cupped hands. His hair was disgusting to look at it, but with a good wash, John could see it would be rather pretty, curly and down to his ears. 

Then the boy looked up, his icy blue eyes finding Johns in the crowd, and the boy whimpered before looking back down, hiding his frame and crossing his ankles in the limelight. The soul splitting moment sent a spark of electricity through John. 

He'd never thought of himself as gay, but every fibre of his being wanted to own that boy. Mark him. Collar him. Break him. Tear him apart and put him back together. 

He licked his lips slowly. 

He wanted that very much indeed. 

"...We'll start the bidding at 500 pounds,"


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock shivered as he was shoved off of the platform, into the arms of the second handler, the one he was being sold by. He could barely focus, his mind racing with anxiety. The man, that man, was his Master now. He blinked a few times, glancing over his shoulder to try and see him as he was pulled backstage. Would he be kinder? Would he let him have toys if he obeyed? Sherlock really wanted toys. His otter had been taken, maybe Bald Man still had it and could give it to Master?

" _Eyes down_ , boy," Bald Man slapped him on the back of the head.

"Yes sir, sorry sir" Sherlock said in his bestest most respectful voice. He didn't want any more punishments. He wanted to please his new Master, and his trainers had said that Masters don't like it when new slaves are naughty. 

"Put these on," He was tossed a large white t-shirt and tiny white shorts, and he put them on without a word, the hem of the t-shirt falling around his collarbone and the end of it reaching past the shorts, which was about mid-thigh. His collar was removed and replaced with a different one. This one was plastic with numbers on it, like a hospital bracelet. 

One time, _before_ , Mycroft had taken him to hospital when he'd had the stomach flu. 

Mycroft was going to find him soon, he nodded to himself, rubbing his ankles together as Bald Man filled out something on a clipboard. Mycroft would find him and take him home and they'd play pirates and everything would be okay.

Sherlock gulped as he heard the auction ending, shuffling and talking from the audience. He looked over his shoulder to see the winners coming to collect, and saw his Master, the blonde one with the cane, coming too. 

"Eyes down!" Bald Man scolded, thwapping the back of his skull, "don't speak, don't move unless I say, obey your Master, and if he brings you back here I will _kill_ you, do you understand?"

"Yessir,"

~~~~

John grinned to himself, barely leaning on his cane as he quickly got out of his chair, Mike chuckling and wishing him luck. Sherlock was his now. All his. To do with whatever he saw fit. 

He furrowed his brows when he saw Sherlock getting prepared with the other slaves, one of the brainless trainers hitting him on the backside of his head. John felt a growl in his chest, his knuckles tightening around his cane but he pushed it down. No use in letting his temper out right now. 

He limped to the collection area, waiting in a queue for about five minutes, watching each of the prizes he'd seen on stage walking away with their new owners. They looked ill, all of them, or terrified, or a combination of both. John hoped his boy wouldn't be so sickly, he was so thin, perhaps John would be required to feed him up. His doctorly urges were surging when he finally saw the boy that was his, holding himself in his arms, tiny lips pulled between his teeth, shock of curls thrown forward as he inspected the carpet. Inspecting him closer now, John could see his arms were so thin his elbows were like knobs, stomach just a little swollen in hunger. He was going to _kill_ whoever did this. Slowly. 

Adult slaves were one thing, but kits were still kits. 

"John Watson, Paddle number 5," John gave the woman running the checkout a smile, and she blushed and nodded, flirting with him. He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair, waiting as Sherlock was pulled out of the crowd of shivering kits, the trainer gripping him by his wrist, which looked so fragile it might snap. 

"We've included a free thirty day warranty, Mr. Watson, if it's not to your standards or dies before the waranty expires you can return him for a slave of similar value,"

"That's very generous," 

"Here's his microchip number, medical file, and bill of sale, sign here, here and here," John squiggled his name at each line before she snapped the file folder closed and gave him a ginormous grin.

"Ta," John tucked the folder into his jacket, excitedly approaching the tiny boy who was very quietly standing below his trainer, his head pointed downward so steeply John could see the back of his neck. 

"Go to him, boy," The trainer smacked him on his bum and Sherlock rocketed forward, stumbling before kneeling on the rough carpet at John's feet, head still pointed down. John's brow furrowed as he examined each vertebrae through the thin white t-shirt he was wearing, the fabric shivering as he knelt. 

John chuckled and knelt, hooking his finger under Sherlock's chin and raising it to meet his eyes. Dear God, he breathed out when he saw them, glowing pale icy blue and vibrant green, and his lips turned into a smirk when he realized they were different colours. 

"Have you got a name boy?"

The tiny thing blinked up at him incredulously, but nodded.

"Sh-Sherlock," He whimpered, eyes searching all over John's face, every tan wrinkled and scruffy inch. His heart was racing, realizing that he was ex-military, depressed, and had a gun in the back of his trousers. 

Sherlock trembled and squirmed on his knees, his throat blocked with something like fear. He knew with all his heart that this man would only beat him. That's why he'd bought a slave so young. He knew Sherlock wouldn't fight back. 


	4. Chapter 4

John cocked his head to the side as the little boy looked up at him, the doctor's careful eyes examining the yellowing bruises around his cheekbones.

"Lovely name" John nodded briskly, the boys wintery eyes falling, settling to rest on John's shoes. You can tell a lot about people by their shoes.

"Thank you Master," Sherlock whispered. Nobody had asked him his name, not since he was taken. He was just bitch. 

"I'm John, but I'm Master to you,"

"Yes, Master."

"We've included the kennel, as well as some free training tips," The woman said, handing Master a small booklet, and his cage, which someone had cleaned. Sherlock spared a few glances at Master's face, cataloging the way he looked at her. Friendly. Nonthreatening. He nibbled on his bottom lip. 

"Right, come on then, _Sherlock,"_ John stood with a smile, motioning for Sherlock to follow. The boy scrambled to his feet and raced to catch up, his bare feet pittering across the floor, his tiny legs just enough to keep pace with a limping John as they reached the exit, giving Mike a subtle wave as the two of them made their way to an elevator. John glanced at Sherlock, the boy looking up at him with doleful blue eyes and nibbling on his bottom lip. His eyes had a spark in them, John realized, that's what was so special about him. All the other kits were broken and dull, but Sherlock was, not to say unbroken, but affected differently. 

"Was you in the war, Master?" Sherlock's eyes never left him, looking at him with curiosity. 

"Yes, Sherlock," John scrunched his eyebrows as he pressed the button, the boy seemingly satisfied with this answer, his curly head pointed to John's shoes. Sherlock rocked back and forth on his feet, clearly hyperactive in that childish way, toes bouncing as he sucked his knuckle between his teeth, biting and pinching at it nervously. 

"Are you going to eat me sir?" He asked once the elevator doors were shut.

"Eyes down," John spoke plainly, his voice devoid of either harshness or gentility. Sherlock's cheeks darkened and he looked down quickly. "I'm not certain there's enough of you _to_ eat," John demonstrated by patting Sherlock's puffed stomach. 

Sherlock gulped. 

"I wouldn't eat you Sherlock, you'll be worth more once you're fully grown,"

"I see sir," Sherlock nodded, his tiny features fixed in thoughtful concentration. "Am I going to be a builder, Master?"

"A builder?" John scoffed.

"My brother and I saw slaves one time, on the motorway, they was building somefin," Sherlock's toes dug into the floor, his hands hung limply at his side as he fidgeted his fingers. 

"You're not going to be a builder, Sherlock, no you're a different kind of slave,"

"There are different kinds?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side like a puppy in thought. 

"Wasn't your mother a slave?"

"Haven't got a mother sir,"

"Who suckled you then?"

"Don't know sir,"

"I see," John's eyebrows were dug into his forehead, his lip quirked to the side. Interesting.

"Master?" 

"Yes?"

"Did, did the Bald Man give you my otter, Master, sir?"

"Your otter?"

"I had a stuffed otter, before they, before I- came here," Sherlock ran his fingers along the edge of the metal wire cage that hung from John's hand. Master gave him a sharp look and shook his head. 

"They shouldn't have let you have that, it's not right,"

"Not..right sir?" Sherlock's eyes filled with tears, his secret hopes dashed to a million pieces. The chances of seeing Eddie gone forever, and his eyes welled with tears.

"Toys are for children, not for kits,"

Sherlock sniffled but nodded solemnly, his cheeks drizzly and his nose clotted with snot. 

"Clean up your nose, boy, I'm not getting that all over a taxi,"

Sherlock's lip quivered and he looked up at John with despair.

"Stop that, Sherlock, I said no,"

"Can't stop it sir," Sherlock mumbled, grasping his hand out to hold something, anything, and ended up pressing his face into the side of John's jacket, shoulders shaking as he sobbed. John looked incredulously at the tiny boy weeping, arms clutching at his jacket, his filthy hair and skin mucking up John's clothes. 

He wanted so badly to hold Sherlock on his hip, shush him and coo, there there Sherlock I'll get you your otter. But that's not how things went. No matter how pitiful Sherlock looked right now, he was a slave, John's inferior in every way. 


	5. Chapter 5

When they arrived at John's flat, he could tell that Sherlock was knackered. He'd barely even stopped crying, his tiny little nose still rosy and wet. John turned the key in the lock of 221, Sherlock following behind, lugging his own kennel up the steps. 

"More stairs sir?" Sherlock whined, making a pathetic little stomp on the floor with his bare foot, his head of mangy curls thrown backwards. 

"No whining," John growled, giving Sherlock a smack on the head, the brunet yelping and hurrying to the banister, the back of the cage kicking at his ankles as he hefted it behind him.

John gave him a nod of approval and followed, quickly peeking to see that Mrs. Hudson was still at her sister's, and that he could avoid her judgmental gaze. He knew she wasn't too keen on slavery, and she was probably not as immune to Sherlock's pitiful cries or pleas as John.

Not that John was entirely, though. He needed to lay down the law as soon as possible, so that Sherlock wouldn't have room to wiggle. Strictness and consistency was key with kits, the booklet said. Sherlock would only do worse to have notions of self pity. His needs were second to his Master. Always.

"My arms hurt sir, please, I can't do it!" Sherlock wailed, plopping himself down on the sixth step, the cage almost taking a tumble before he clutched it back by his fingers. He looked at John with wide watery eyes, and John licked his lips before sighing exaggeratedly. This was surely going to be more of a bother than he expected. 

"You're not getting dinner 'till it's upstairs then," John crossed his arms and Sherlock whined loudly. John simply walked around him, his leg's ache dulling as his Captain's Voice took it's effects. Laying down the law early like this was good, he thought. Sure, Sherlock probably was being pushed to the extreme like this, but it would do better to show him that he would get no help from John. 

It was about 20 minutes before a pitiful coughing heap of skin and bone finally flopped down to the ground outside the sitting room door, the cage clattering as it flipped over. 

John's gut twisted in guilt. _do no harm._ He shook his head and clenched his fist, stepping from the kitchen to the lump on the ground. 

"Sherlock, get up please," He sighed. 

No response.

" _Sherlock_ ," 

"pleasei'msorrysirpleasedon'thurtme," Sherlock whispered, his weak muscles twitching and his chest heaving with breath. He curled himself inwards, his bones aching and throbbing. His big blue eyes peeked over his fringes, glassy and unfocused, as if couldn't see John at all. A wet cough hacked through his body, his lungs burning. 

"Christ, alright," John's throat was tight and a knot was forming somewhere in his gut. "Take a minute if you need it," He stood and went to the sink, filling a glass with water and carrying to the puddle of Sherlock on the floor. 

John got down on one knee, the tiny boy flinching and covering his head with his arms. The Doctor suddenly felt quite sick. 

"That's alright, Sherlock, I'm not going to hurt you," _anymore than I already have._ John reached gingerly and pet his dirty hair, the little tyke sniffling and wheezing, pushing his head up into John's touch.

"Drink this," He held the glass to Sherlock's lips and the boy gulped it down. " _slowly_ ," John scolded as Sherlock choked a bit. 

"Right, come here," John set the glass aside and scooped Sherlock up, bridal style, the boy shaking and gripping John's jacket tightly. John pushed open the door to the loo with his back and very gently sat Sherlock down on the rug. Tugging off the white shirt and shorts, John kept his gaze professional, he was a doctor he'd seen it all before. Sherlock's bruises weren't too dark, but damn was he skinny. The sort of thing you saw on ads for charities, all skin and bone and puffy stomach. 

Sherlock seemed more than a bit uneasy being nude, hands reaching and covering himself, knees closed. John fiddled with the taps till the water was alright before picking a limp Sherlock up and placing him into the porcelain tub. 

Sherlock froze when he touched the water, his eyes wide and searching for John. 

"Master Jawn?" He said, watching the gurgling water with pure horror, "please don't- I didn't mean to- I'll be good I promise please, please don't," He curled himself tightly into one corner of the bath, shaking and holding his head up high above the water. 

"Woah, Sherlock, it's just a bath, we've gotta get you cleaned off, you're filthy," John quirked an eyebrow, "What did you think I was doing?"

"Punishment," Sherlock whispered. 

"Punish-oh," John realized with a bit of sadness that Sherlock had probably been punished with water, or perhaps seen that sort of thing happen to the other kits. It wasn't uncommon, especially in slaves about to be sold. Marks were generally frowned upon for fresh merchandise. "Nope, just a bath today, love,"

" _Love_?" Sherlock looked up with hopeful confusion and John bit his lip, realizing what he had said. He licked his lips but didn't say anything more, gruffly scrubbing the grime from every nook and cranny, revealing pure white skin so pale he was translucent. 

Dunking Sherlock's hair beneath the water had been a struggle, the little thing kicking and fighting, panicked. But John was by far the stronger party, and it was over quickly enough. 

"Do you know how to make tea, Sherlock?"

The wet boy shook his head as John pat him dry with the a very soft towel, and Sherlock almost thought about Mycroft. 

No. No more Mycroft-thoughts. 

"Answer, please," John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock sputtered.

"No, no sir,"

"Right. I'm going to make us tea, and you're going to watch. Next time you'll be expected to know how alright?"

"Yes sir. I'm a quick learner sir. I learned how to read when I was two." Sherlock grinned proudly. John froze and looked carefully at Sherlock. 

"Who tought you that?"

"My brother," Sherlock said absently as John pulled one of his own t-shirts over his head. "This smells like you, Master," Sherlock sniffed the worn fabric, pulling it out so he could read the text on the front. _Royal Army Medical Corps._

"Yes, but this important, Sherlock, can you look at me?" John said gently, tugging Sherlock's chin to look at him. "You cannot say that to anyone, okay?"

"Why?"

"Because you could get in a lot of trouble."

"Why?"

"Because it's illegal for a slave to teach another slave to read,"

"But my brother's not a slave, he's at university and he has a boyfriend I _remember._ "

John paused and thought for a moment, holding the squirmy young boy by his shoulders. 

"What's your brother's name, love?" 

"m'not tellin you!" Sherlock whispered loudly, shifting around in John's grasp.

"Why not?" John glared at his insolence. 

"'Cause you just said he could get in trouble!"

John paused. Good point. 

"Sherlock, do we need to have a chat about the rules? You know that it's wrong to keep secrets from your Master."

The beautiful boy sucked on his knuckle intently, looking distraught. 

"You promise not to tell?" He whispered, eyes wide and sweet. 

"Sherlock, if you don't tell me his name it's ten strokes and corner time,"

Sherlock gasped, hopping from foot to foot with anxious energy, eyes darting about. John mentally noted that ADHD might be a factor to consider in his training. Sherlock leaned forward and cupped his hands around John's ear, his breath warm and whispered.

"Mycroft Holmes," 

"Alright, thank you, Sherlock, I promise you won't get into any trouble for telling the truth,"

Sherlock nodded solemnly, his face sunk and ashamed. He'd given away his secret. What if he got Mycroft into trouble and he never came to rescue him? 

"You did a good thing, Sherlock," 

Silence. 

"Right, let's get that cuppa." John held out a hand for Sherlock to take, and the boy grasped it tightly, following him close to the kitchen. 


	6. Chapter 6

"Alright, now just a splash of milk, Sherlock, barely a dribble," John instructed as Sherlock shakily held the milk, his pink tongue peeking out from between his lips. John winced when Sherlock dumped way too much into the piping mug of tea, as well as splattering some onto the table.

"That's too much," John scolded and Sherlock looked up guiltily, looking down again and attempting to scoop the milk out. "No, no, it's too late now," John said with less bite than he'd intended, and Sherlock plopped the milk carton upright. Sherlock wiggled on his feet and watched John intently. John looked down to the milky abomination in his hand and back up at a very apprehensive set of aquamarine eyes. 

He took a sip and winced at how bland it was, but gave Sherlock an approving nod. That was enough it seemed, for Sherlock to grin cheekily, rolling up and down on the balls of his feet. 

"Right, time to eat," John set the tea down and wandered to the cupboards, Sherlock leaning up against the counter, head thrown back and curls dangling in his eyes. "Beans on toast?" John sighed when he saw how meager the pickings were, he'd need to go out to the shops soon. 

Sherlock didn't reply, instead drawing shapes with his finger on the work top. Eating was no fun. Even when he was with Mycroft, it was always yucky foods and rules and he didn't like rules. He had _so many_ rules. And at the auctionhouse they weren't fed at all, and every time they did, Sherlock threw up. He didn't like throwin up. Not one bit. 

"We're gonna need to slowly bring your calorie content up, I doubt you'll be able to hold down much more than this," John put a plate of toast down in front of Sherlock, and Sherlock only looked down. 

"Eat, Sherlock," John said, pushing the plate closer. 

Sherlock didn't budge. John grumbled and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to the chair. Sherlock sat dutifully, his arm hurting where John had gripped it. The plate of beany toast stared up at him and Sherlock whimpered, looking up at John pleadingly. 

"Please don't make me, sir, it'll _hurt_." 

"Sherlock, this is your last warning, eat it or I will feed it to you, and you won't like that," John pointed at him admonishingly, and Sherlock gulped, picking up a slice gingerly and nibbling a tiny bite. It was warm and delicious and it tasted like home and he took a second bite. He was hungry, he realized, really hungry. 

"Slow down, Sherlock, chew and swallow. And I will not ask you again."

Sherlock nodded, his mouth crushingly full of food. 

John sighed and rubbed at his eyes before leaving Sherlock alone to go to his laptop. He opened a search bar and typed in the name Sherlock had given him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was super short but I just had to write this shit


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock kept himself occupied organizing all of John's closet for the rest of the day. John had watched for a few minutes, but it was all to complicated for him to see. Only Sherlock's eyes saw pattern in seemingly mind numbing piles of socks. Texture, colour, insulation, pattern, fanciness, frequency of wear, etc. He was neck deep into "the index" and John gave him an approving pat. 

John had settled himself with a fresh cuppa, this time with no milk at all just to be safe, and had began to read the pages he'd saved on his laptop. Not a lot of Mycroft Holmes in the book, it would seem. 

It took a while, and by the end, his notepad was a confusing jumble of facts. 

_-25 at the time of publishing on the Cambridge Fencing Team webpage_

_-Free Citizen, obviously_

_-No siblings mentioned anywhere, save a newspaper article showing him sole heir of family fortune_

_-Father Siger Holmes - rich_

_-red hair_

_-aprox. 6'2"_

John tapped his pencil on the pad, brows scrunched. He was a real person, that's for sure, and he did look a bit like Sherlock in the one grainy photo available. 

"Sir?"

"Hmm?" John flipped open his crossword to hide his search.

"I finished, sir," Sherlock looked up at the table with curiosity, popping up onto his tip toes to see. "That one's _congruent_ , sir" Sherlock pointed to number fourteen down and John blinked. He was only bloody right of course. 

"Hmm. Better get a start with the washing up then," John shook out his newspaper.

"Engh, do I have to?" Sherlock threw his head back and stomped his feet. 

"Oi, no complaining, Sherlock, do you _want_ a caning?" John snarled, pointing a wagging finger Sherlock's way. 

"No sir," Sherlock's eyes went wide in fear, his cheeks pale. He scurried off to the kitchen and John gave a long suffering sigh. Sherlock stepped up on the stool and turned on the tap, squeezing a copious amount of suds onto his hands before slimming them all over the plates. John couldn't help but stare at how strange a way of washing the dishes that was. 

"Sherlock, have you ever done the washing up before?"

"Nope," Sherlock said with a smile, a floof of bubbles somehow atop his head.

It was only a moment before the inevitable crash. 

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted, chair screeching behind him as he stood up. Sherlock jumped but was otherwise silent, staring down at the shattered plate in the bottom of the sink. The pink foamy water swirled with a deep dark red and Sherlock was seemingly lost in the water. John looked between the bony boy and the sink and almost threw up. "Oh Jesus, you've cut your hand, Sherlock!" He scolded, grumbling as he went to fetch the med kid. 

Sherlock watched it down the drain in a trance, his hand cut from the center palm down the side of his tiny thumb. It was pulsing crimson and he could see just a flash of his own tendon. He flexed his fingers, wincing at the pain, watching it move. 

"Sherlock what the hell are you doing, give me your hand," John ordered, gripping Sherlock by the wrist and washing off his hand, drying it quickly and wrapping it in a bandage. "Do you want to go sit down, Sherlock, in case you feel dizzy?"

"It's only blood, sir," He said softly, sweetly, as if he'd said that the sky were blue. John's chest filled with a strong doctorly worry at that.

"Only- Sherlock you've lost at least a quarter of a pint!" 

"How much blood do I have, sir, all of it?"

John paused, face incredulous as he finished up the bandaging on Sherlock's hand. "I'd say 5 pints, no more than that,"

"And I know it's my heart that makes it go to my body, through... what's it called..."

"Veins?"

"Yeah! Yeah I know that but what about after that, where does blood go after that?"

"Capillaries," John said in completely shock. "Sherlock...that was bloody horrifying,"

"It was?"

"Of course it was Sherlock." John thought for only a fleeting moment that he'd bought a psychopathic child murderslave but shook the idea away and put a firm hand on Sherlock's hair. "What did you think it was?"

"Dunno," Sherlock mumbled, looking down at his hand and up at John, his eyes wide and penitent "Are you mad at me?"

"No..I mean, obviously, you've made a mess, but you're not getting a caning for an accident like that. Not when you've nicked yourself like that, Sherlock, you must always tell me when you get hurt, alright, you won't be in trouble."

Sherlock only nodded and John gave him a light slap on his cheek, eyebrow up. 

"Yes, sir,"

"Good lad,"


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock just sort of sat for a while, John saw from the corner of his eye. The telly was on quietly and John was having a few cans. Sherlock was quiet, finally, kneeling on the floor by the sofa, head hung on his shoulders, eyes shut. He looked asleep, but every now and then he'd shift on his bum and shake out his head like a dog. 

John sighed, putting his arm on the top of the sofa, just drinking and letting the mind numbing garbage entertain him for a bit. 

John almost jumped when something slid against his leg, only to look down and see Sherlock had scooted over a few feet, his shoulder tucked next to John's leg, nose pressed into the crook of his knee. John's face crinkled and he glanced down, eyes tracing over the hospital style collar on Sherlock's exposed pale neck, a few curls tucked beneath it. A tiny heart beat against his calf, and John enjoyed the warmth of a body against his. 

He realized that he hadn't cleaned his gun tonight. He hadn't nervously oiled it, clicking the safety on and off, clicking the rounds in and out. And his fingers didn't crave the cold metal of the trigger and his skull didn't itch from the inside. 

And there was a flop of silky raven hair across his knee, attached to a tiny warm neck that warms all of him somehow. 

He sucked down the rest of his lager and pressed his hand to Sherlock's head. Sherlock shuddered and looked up with those gorgeous sparkling eyes and John gulped. 

He remembered why he'd purchased Sherlock and it hit him in his gut like ice. Innocence, pure and white, stared up at him, and realized he wanted to destroy it, a dark seething rage to tear Sherlock apart and own him and control him entirely. To see his lips wrapped around his cock, to color his perfect skin with his fingerprints, to mold and break and shape. He hated himself for it, he really did. 

It wouldn't be hard to do it now, he thought. Wouldn't be hard to grip him by the hair and force himself down his throat, wouldn't be illegal, wouldn't have consequence. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around the shock of midnight locks and Sherlock shifted slightly on his knees, his cheek pressed to John's leg, tiny soft breaths huffing warmth through his jeans. 

John sobered quickly when the TV barked something loud, and shook away the thought, self-loathing in his veins as he stared at his own fingers wrapped in Sherlock's curls. 

He groaned and stood quickly. Tiny arms clutched his leg with a whine. John shook his ankle to remove Sherlock's weak grip and took his rubbish to the kitchen. He looked down at the black metal wire cage that sat by the fridge and sighed, retrieving one of Mrs. H's knit blankets from the linen closet and spreading it on the inside. 

"Bed, Sherlock," He pointed to the kennel and watched as Sherlock froze and turned to look up at him, slowly stretching up to his feet and sulking over, yawning sweetly. John forced away a coo and tapped the top. The little boy quickly clambered in. It wasn't particularly constraining, he had room to turn around and move a bit. He curled up in the fetus position, knees to his chest and looked up solemnly at John. "eyes down, boy," John grunted.

Sherlock looked away, tucking his head between his knees silently. He was shivering, and John absently eyed the thermostat. No, John, don't be so damn soft with him. He's not a child. He's a slave. John knelt down and clicked the door closed, eyeing the outside lock. He left it be and stood, sighing and stretching a bit. It had been a good day, really. He pulled his phone out from his pocket.

 _no new_ _messages_

John sighed and set it on the kitchen bench, going to the lock box on the desk and twisting the dial. He pulled out the cleaning kid, then his gun. 

Sherlock _screamed_. 

"Jesus fucking christ, Sherlock, what the hell?!" John turned, hand tightening instinctively around the grip, glaring. 

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from screaming, his lungs empty and his voice shrill, wrapping his bandaged hand across his lips to try and keep quiet. _Stay quiet. Stop making such a racket, he's going to get angry, he's going to get very angry and they're going to kill you if you make one more sound oh god-_

"Sherlock, _enough_ , what the hell's the matter with you?"

The keening cries continued, uninhibited by Sherlock covering his nose and mouth, his lungs heaving of their own volition. John set the gun down on the table but Sherlock wouldn't stop, wouldn't stop. His whole body was trembling, kicking himself further back into the corner of his cage, curling his entire body away from John. 

The Army Captain's shouts were muffled in his ears, all he could hear was his heart beating, tearing itself to pieces, _he could hear her screaming again, he could see her blood everywhere he couldn't get out of here he couldn't get out and he was going to die and he was going to die and he was going to die-_

"Sherlock!" John opened his cage's latch, and Sherlock could barely focus enough to see his hands reaching in, reaching towards him with strong, big fingers and he screeched louder. _They were tipping her cage over and she fell to the ground._

John grabbed Sherlock by his ankles and yanked him out, holding him tight as he fought and struggled with every ounce of strength he had, kicking and clawing and gasping out pleas.

"Please don't! Please! Please, please, Master, I'll be good I'll be good! Don't kill me, don't please, sir, don't kill me, sir, Master, Master please!" He wailed, eyes rabid and body spasming out of control. Panic attack, John registered mutely.

"Breathe, kid, you've gotta breathe,"

Sherlock shook his head, still wiggling away, feet kicking out at anything he could reach. John growled and slapped him across the face, the hard slap echoing in the kitchen as Sherlock finally silenced, sucking in a wobbling breath. 

"There, there you are, what the hell was that, Sherlock?"

"You- you were gonna- they- I'm so sorry, Master, I'm so sorry, I only wanted to hug you, you looked sad, I won't do it again, I won't, please," John sat back on his heels, holding a limp and exhausted Sherlock down to the floor, the tiny boy's breathing still shallow and his eyes still frantic. 

"You thought I was cross with you, because you held onto my leg?"

"The- _gun_ ," Sherlock whispered, eyes glued to the desk in the sitting room, lip wobbling. His eyes were dry and that alone was concerning. But the realization Sherlock thought he was going to _kill_ him, over a hug, sank cold in his belly. 

"Oh, Sherlock," John hung his head, shaking it and holding the boy's wrists tighter. What seven year old should fear for their life like that? What had he seen, John thought grimly, what had he seen that he thought John would do that?

"Breathe, Sherlock, that's a good boy," John instructed, gentler than he'd intended, hand resting atop Sherlock's chest, feeling it moving up and down. The tiny thing's eyes began to water, the whole situation hitting him again. John shhed him, rubbing a circle on his back as he held him close. "You're a good boy, Sherlock,"

It's only because he was so scared, he thought, that's the only reason I'm doing this. 


End file.
